The Lisping Barista Gets a Song in her Head

I have to do this right away or I’ll change my mind. You know, Option #7; the clobber Chai Latte with a baseball bat one. As soon as he leaves, I get the bat and wait by the door.

While I’m waiting, I got this song going through my head. It’s from the Spellbinding Fish Fry. They call it, One Heaven. It might be my favorite. It goes like this:

One Heaven when everything’s done.

One place for everyone.

Arabs and Jews,

Folks that’s got and ain’t got shoes.

Black and White,

Folks who’s wrong and folks who’s right.

Young and Old,

Shy and the bold, the tame and uncontrolled.

One Heaven when everything’s done.

One place for everyone.

So, we’ll all have to get along.

Yeah, I know. You got to be there. The song goes on like that for a hundred verses with all kinds of categories. Every time I go to a concert, they got more. They don’t call them spellbinding for nothing. Anyway, it’s a feel good song. They’re all feel good songs. They promote peace, love, and understanding.

The first time I went to hear the Fry I was meeting friends. I couldn’t find them, so I make my way to the stage, turn around, and work outwards, you know, so I can see faces. Everyone’s smiling and I start to get paranoid because I think they’re all laughing at me. I’m about to lose my shit right there in the middle of the concert; but, then I realize, hey, it’s feel good music. All these thousands of Deep Fries are just feeling good; that’s why they’re smiling. They’re not laughing at me.

I used to think I could be down with peace, love, and understanding. One heaven for everyone was good for me. Now I’m not sure.

What’ll I do when I get to Heaven and Chai Latte’s there? I hate it when he comes home. I hear his key in the door and I wonder how he’ll be. No, I can’t see spending eternity with Chai. A couple weeks is bad enough.

For that matter, what about Hitler, or Stalin, or Attila the Hun? How’d you like to be in heaven with them? That would be totally whacked, sitting on a cloud with Osama Bin Laden and strumming harps with Vlad the Impaler.

I know what you’re saying, they got Hell for that kind. They don’t let them into Heaven. St Peter turns them away at the door. It makes me feel real good thinking of Chai at the end of a pitchfork, getting roasted with his feet in a block of ice. I like that. But then I think, if I like torturing him so much, doesn’t that make me as bad as him? What’s worse, beating up your girlfriend a couple times when you’re drunk, or clobbering a guy with a baseball bat and wanting to fry him in Hell forever when you’re stone cold sober?

No, I’ll have to get my shit together before I show up in Heaven. They won’t let a bitter, vindictive type up there. Otherwise, I’d be like the one guy at a Spellbinding Fish Fry concert not smiling, arms crossed, scoffing at how naive everyone is, not even taping my foot, much less dancing in the dusty infield.

OK, so, maybe I don’t have to send Chai to Hell. God’ll do it for me. Or St Peter, or some other bouncer dude they got up there. But that doesn’t work either. Then you got God not smiling when He’s supposed to be the host. You got St Peter checking off from a list of wrongs, scoffing at people, because they’ve got the balls to line up for Heaven. You got a bouncer dude standing around with his arms crossed, saying with his eyes, just give me an excuse to kick your ass.

That doesn’t sound like Heaven to me. Heaven, to me, is like a Spellbinding Fish Fry concert. Everyone’s happy and loving everyone except, maybe for a few walking around, thinking everyone is dissing them. Hilter, Stalin, Attila, Osama, Vlad, Chai, that whole evil crew, getting uptight and paranoid because they can’t imagine a place where everyone’s happy.

I’m about ready to forgive Chai Latte and plan on smiling at him when we I see him in Heaven; but then I hear the door. I’m standing behind it with a baseball bat. If I don’t clobber him, I’m fucked.


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S. Harry Zade

Writing a blog keeps me alive.

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